The Curse of the King (15 page)

The Karai had fashioned their institute to look like a college—all red-brick buildings with stone steps, connected by grassy lawns and brick pathways. Now the brick paths were being replaced with cement, and the grass patches were being filled with gravel. The Massa attack had totaled a couple of the buildings, and in their place new structures were rising—drab concrete slabs with tiny windows. I was relieved to see that the magnificent, museumlike House of Wenders still stood across the quadrangle. But its sides had been damaged by bombs, and now the bricks were being removed for a makeover. The seven columns still stood at the top of the stairs, but the word
Wenders
had been chiseled from the marble pediment. On the ground, ready to be hoisted into place, was a cement block carved deeply with another word:

“Soon, this will all be perfect,” Brother Yiorgos said in his thick Greek accent. “Massa strong. No more like Karai. No more froufrou Harvard-bricky college-la-la-la heads in clouds.”

Aly scratched her head. “Could you repeat that?”

Brother Yiorgos grunted, pushing us into a bunkerlike building next to the House of Wenders.

I was sort of hoping we'd go back to our old dorm, which was now surrounded by scaffolding and teeming with Massa workers. Not that the dorm was a cozy place to begin with. But it looked like a palace next to the long metal-sided box they were taking us to now.

The doorknobs contained massive locks and the windows were barred. Inside, the place had the welcoming smell of wet cement and freshly cut tin. Our footsteps clonked on a metal floor as we passed tiny, unfurnished rooms. We had to duck through an open metal doorframe as Yiorgos led us into a large boxy space with a square hole for a window. “Living room,” he said.

“Sofas and flat-screen TV arriving tomorrow?” Aly asked.

Yiorgos's eyes blazed. “You are here to work.” He zipped open his shoulder bag and threw a pile of clothes onto a metal work table. On top, a white polo shirt unfolded. It had an
M
insignia on the left breast pocket. “Wait for Brother Dimitrios. Wear these. You smell bad.”

“Where are we supposed to sit?” Aly asked.

“On the floor,” Yiorgos said with a sneer. “If it's good
enough for the cockroaches, it's good enough for you.”

As he stomped away, Cass turned to the window and stared silently. Around us, the jungle was growing dark. It was hard to believe a whole day had gone by since we'd awakened in Greece.

Aly slumped against the wall. “Okay, Tailor, sew us up something quick. Because I don't like this at all. I have a feeling we out-stupided ourselves by coming here.”

“Stay focused,” I said resolutely. “The key is finding Fiddle and the rebels. They're still out there. They've got to be.”

“You saw those prisoners, Jack,” Aly said. “And those are the ones the Massa spared!”

“That's what Brother Dimitrios told us,” I said. “And Brother Dimitrios lies. Fiddle rescued a lot of people. Once we find them, we have a team. Experts. Fighters. We take the island back, reconstruct the Loculus of Healing, find the backpack, and book it.”

“Five,” Aly said, holding up her hand.

As I slapped it, Cass spun around. His face was bright red.

“Are you two serious?” he said, his voice a garbled rasp. “What planet are you on? Do you think we're really going to survive this?
Do you think we deserve to?
”

“Cass . . . ?” Aly said cautiously. She and I exchanged a look. It was the first thing Cass had said since we left Greece.

“They're dead, Jack,” Cass said. “They're all dead, like Torquin. Did you see the fires in the jungle? The Massa smoked them out.”

“It's just smoke, Cass,” Aly said. “It's not proof of anything.”

“Think about it, Jack—they escaped with
nothing
, no weapons, no communication, no food!” Cass was practically yelling now. “If the smoke didn't get them, starvation did. Don't you guys see? We're dead people, all of us! This was a terrible plan. They're going to separate us, take what they need from us, and then kill us! They're evil.
Bhegad is dead and Torquin is dead and Fiddle is dead and we're dead!
”

His voice echoed sharply against the metal walls. I felt paralyzed. Tongue-tied. “You—you didn't kill Torquin, Cass,” I said lamely. “It wasn't your—”

“If you say that to me one more time, I'll kill you, too!” Cass blurted.

Tears had formed at the corners of his eyes, and he turned back to the window. Aly walked toward him and stood inches away—not touching him, just standing. She took a deep breath. “Hey, you want to know something I never told you?”

“No,” Cass said.

“This will sound dumb,” she went on, “but my mom was really impressed with you. She's a psychologist, and she really knows how to read people. She said you had an
incredibly strong emotional core.”

Cass snorted. “You're right. It does sound dumb.”

“You know what else she always says?” Aly went on. “Lack of sleep is the number-one thing that can mess up a person's brain. At least fifty percent of all psychological pain can be eased by regular sleep.”

Cass turned away.

“We've been up more than twenty-four hours, Cass,” Aly said gently.

“I—” Cass's voice broke. “Aly, I can never forgive myself . . .”

“For Torquin. I know. But you can't stay awake the rest of your life because of what happened. Torquin would want you to continue, Cass. He would want you to live. And you need sleep. We all do.” Aly knelt on all fours, sweeping aside scraps of metal and bunching up a thick blue plastic sheet. “Come on. We'll catch a nap right here. The Massa Hilton.”

I saw a trace of a smile cross Cass's face. He sank to one knee as if gravity had reached up an invisible hand and yanked him down. As I watched him and Aly settle into the makeshift resting spot, my own head began to feel heavy. I slid down against the wall, yawning. “Good night, guys.”

“'Night, Jack . . . Aly,” Cass squeaked. And then he added, “And I didn't mean what I said, about wanting to kill you.”

Aly smiled. “We didn't think so.”

The tap on my shoulder came about ten hours later by the clock, but it felt as if I'd been asleep for fifteen minutes.

As I blinked my eyes open, Brother Dimitrios stared down at me. He looked haggard and tired himself. “So sorry for the interruption . . .”

I yawned. My body was aching. We were all wearing our clean Massa clothing, and the room smelled of laundry detergent and sawdust. “Can we do this later?” I said. “I'm getting used to my new dorm.”

With a weary smile, Dimitrios held out his hand. “Oh dear, did Yiorgos tell you this was your dorm? That scalawag. We wouldn't house you in a place like this—it's a temporary way station while your rooms are being prepared. Anyway, I'm afraid that there are some things that you must take care of, Jack.”

“Now?” I said. “It's the middle of the night.”

Cass was stirring now, and Aly bolted to her feet. “What's going on?” she demanded.

“Go back to sleep,” Brother Dimitrios said. “Someone will come soon to take you to your quarters.”

“But you just said we had to leave—” Aly began.

“I
said
,” Brother Dimitrios snapped, “just Jack.”

Aly raced to the doorway and stood there, arms folded. “Sorry, but no.”

“Excuse me?” Brother Dimitrios said with a curious smile.

“We go together,” Aly replied. “You've already brainwashed Marco, and you can't have Jack. So, no.”

Cass looked at her in amazement. “You go, girl.”

“I assure you, dear Aly, brainwashing is the furthest thing from my mind,” Brother Dimitrios said. “You three are very different people with different talents. We must interview each of you, to develop individual plans. Surely you can't expect to stand over each other's shoulders forever.”

“You need us, Dimitrios,” Aly said. “So here are our terms. Jack stays. You bring Marco to us, show us he's still alive. We talk to Marco for an hour. Privately.
Then
we negotiate.”

Brother Dimitrios looked confused. “Yes, we do need you. But I daresay you need us more. And for us to help you—to preserve your lives, my dear—we must follow our orders or
we
suffer consequences—”

“What consequences?” Aly demanded. “And who gives them?”

“So if you'll pardon my rudeness, here are
my
terms,” Dimitrios barreled on. “If Jack expects to see you—and his father—again, he will do as I say and come with me. Alone.”

A
S WE PASSED
the place of eating we used to call the Comestibule, two horrifying things happened:

One, the sun peeked over the horizon. Which meant we were officially going to begin a full day of misery in Massaville.

Two, the smell of coffee and fried eggs from inside the building actually made me drool. As in, a string of liquid escaped my mouth and made a straight line down to my shoes. “You are ailing?” Brother Dimitrios said.

“I am hungry,” I replied, wiping my mouth.

“The cafeteria is not yet open,” he said, “but I have some pull here. You will need nourishment for what we have planned.”

“Okay, enough mystery,” I said. “What's the plan?”

But Brother Dimitrios was already heading into the building.

Seeing the interior was a shock. The place looked totally different. The paintings and the huge antler chandelier were gone, and all the wood paneling had been painted white. Brother Mustafa the pilot was swigging down some coffee, but he left the moment we arrived. Dimitrios snapped his fingers and immediately a sleepy-looking goon with a runny nose padded into the room, setting a plate of food in front of me.

I stared down at a yellow lump oozing about a pound of smelly white cheese.

“Chef's specialty, feta omelet,” Brother Dimitrios explained.

“I think I just lost my appetite,” I said. “Do you have any cereal?”

Brother Dimitrios leaped up from his seat, running into the kitchen to demand another meal. As I pushed the plate aside, I looked around the room.

Memories flooded in. I pictured the great banner that had once been strung across this hall:
WELCOME TO YOUR KARAI INSTITUTE HOME
,
JACK
. Back then I'd been too scared and creeped out to appreciate the welcome. Or the food.

Dimitrios reappeared with a bowl of soggy granola and
some weird-tasting milk. I bolted them down. I was still chewing as we walked out the back door. We hadn't gone ten feet before I saw something that made me nearly spit out the remains of my breakfast.

The KI game building, where we used to have unlimited entertainment possibilities, had been gutted. Now it was being merged with the enormous hangar building next to it—the place where all the KI repairs used to take place. It was where I had nearly been hit on the head by Fritz the mechanic because of my own clumsiness.

Its roof had been raised even higher. It was a fretwork of curved, thick wooden beams, and I could see that the building's final shape would be like a gigantic egg. All around the building, massive cranes made of lashed-together tree trunks groaned loudly, hoisting beams on steel winches.

“Behold the future Tharrodrome,” Brother Dimitrios said. “From the word
tharros
, which means ‘courage.' Perhaps you will remember our task chamber in the compound in Egypt, where your remarkable friend Marco performed some extraordinary feats of strength.”

I did remember the chamber. And I remembered what the Massa had unleashed on Marco. A mutant beast. A warrior swordsman. “Is that what you're building here? A place where you torture kids and put their lives at risk?”